by Bo Brennan
If only she knew. Colt nodded as he stepped from the car. “Give your kids a hug from me. I'll see you tomorrow.”
Walking down the hospital corridor Colt wondered when the balance had changed, and how it had gone unnoticed. When did the arseholes outnumber the good? When did the flies become a fucking swarm feeding and breeding on the carcass of child protection? How did everything get so utterly fucked up?
What was the point?
He stopped outside Sasha Grant's hospital room, and his stomach fluttered. For a woman who was no good with kids, India was doing a fine job of consoling one. A growing feeling of point and purpose spread throughout his body, wrapping him in its comforting warm embrace.
This was the point. This child was what it was all about. He could understand what drove Flick to do what she had done. She had simply manipulated a corrupt and broken system to meet her own means. The only thing that set her apart from all the others doing the same, was that she had done it for good reason. The system needed to change. That could only happen with pressure brought to bear from both inside and out.
As he watched India kiss the child's head and draw the covers to her chin, he knew he would forever be an insider. But when she turned and glared at him and began angrily heading his way, the last place in the world he wanted to be was inside this hospital right now.
He took a step back as she stepped into the corridor pulling the door quietly closed behind her. “She's been sexually assaulted,” she said.
Colt frowned. “She told my officers that she hadn't.”
“Not by the scum supposed to be looking after her,” she spat. “By the fucking doctors here. They gave her a full invasive examination for fuck’s sake!”
Colt put his hands up to calm her. “It's standard procedure, India. It's vital to collect evidence for prosecution.”
“Do you even realise how ridiculous that is? She's eleven years old, covered in bruises and got two cracked ribs. She straight up told them about the beatings the foster mother has given her, and flat out denied anything sexual occurring. How is that not good enough for you? Why did she still have to undergo the fear and degradation of having her private bits examined by total strangers against her will?”
Colt cocked his jaw. “Melissa's still in surgery. Thirteen years old and she's going to lose her womb. She didn't even tell Sasha what had happened. What the hell makes you think she'd tell us?”
India turned away and kicked the wall in frustration. “It makes me so fucking angry,” she spat.
“I know.” Colt rested his hands on her shoulders. “You can punch me when we get home if you want. But I need to pay someone a visit first.”
Colt stopped at the basement apartment's slightly ajar door. The wooden frame was splintered where the lock had been jimmied with brute force. He held his arm out to still India, and pushed the door open with his foot to reveal a dim trashed lounge.
Cautiously he stepped inside, glowering when India bowled straight in behind him.
“I'd make you a cup of tea but the fuckers broke all my mugs,” Ryan Reynolds said dully standing in the kitchen doorway.
“You'll need to re-pot this,” India said poking the fern at her feet with a steel toe capped boot. “It'll die.”
Ryan frowned. “If I still had a pot in one piece I'd be pissing in it. The arseholes even took a hammer to my toilet.”
India shrugged. “Be thankful it wasn't your legs.”
“I know you,” he said peering at her. “You're the copper who took out that serial killer. I made page five writing about you last year. It was a very flattering article,” he added hastily when India stared at him.
“Be careful. She likes the press less than the people who did this,” Colt warned righting the upturned pine coffee table and sitting on it. “Has this mess got anything to do with your recent visit to Ireland?” Ryan shrugged and glanced at his feet. “I know all about the Crowley Trust, Ryan. Flick told me everything.”
Ryan sighed and dropped onto the slashed couch, spilling its guts like ectoplasm. “Then you know we've done nothing illegal,” he murmured twisting his lip between his thumb and forefinger.
Colt narrowed his eyes. Ryan's body language said different. Their sudden change from adversaries to collaborators in a clandestine operation had been a curve ball. Colt decided to throw one of his own. “Did they get the files she gave you?”
Ryan swallowed hard and shifted in his seat. Colt knew he'd hit a nerve, knew that he was right. His curve ball had struck the target, and it suddenly made sense. Flick was getting a smooth ride in the press, and Ryan was getting more column inches than ever by reporting information that could only come from an insider. Now that was criminal.
“Well did they?” Colt pushed. “I'm guessing that's what they were looking for.”
As the silence stretched between them he could see Ryan's brain working out a carefully worded response. There was no way he was going to drop himself or Flick in it. Colt smiled.
Ryan smiled back. “Who knows what they were looking for,” he said throwing his hands in the air. “But I guess I'm doing a good job if I've pissed him off this much.”
“Sounds like you know who did this,” India said.
Ryan laughed as he stood up and crunched across shattered CDs and broken glass to reach her. Standing on the remains of the fast wilting fern, he pointed at the wall behind her. “The only way he could've made it more obvious was by signing his fucking name.”
India stared at the front page of The Daily Herald pinned to the wall with a carving knife. Lord Professor Barrington stared back at her. She pulled a latex glove from her pocket. “Don't bother,” Ryan said working the knife free himself. “His heavies aren't stupid enough to leave prints.”
India raised her brows. “You think Barrington's behind this?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course he is.” Ryan thrust the article into her hands. “Read it and tell me otherwise.”
India held it up to show Colt. “I read it on the way to the hospital,” he murmured. Maggie had the weeks newspapers in her boot, ready to collect the units feel good press clippings when a quiet moment came. According to Mags, it wasn't just enemies Ryan Reynolds was making. He was also garnering an enthusiastic following for his accurate portrayal of the secretive family court system.
“If he's pissed off now he'll choke on his breakfast in the morning,” Ryan said. “Tomorrow's front page is about how he's sucked so many kids out of the UK that the NLF has had to start importing them from South Africa.”
India stopped reading and looked up. “What's the NLF?”
“The New Lives Foundation,” Ryan said. “It’s the UK’s biggest adoption and fostering agency. Annual turnover's just shy of a quarter of a billion pounds. And now they've run out of kids to snatch here they're snatching them from other countries.”
“What's that got to do with Barrington?” India pressed.
Colt frowned. “He's the Chairman.”
“And the government’s Chief Advisor on adoption and fostering,” Ryan added. “That's a quarter of a billion pound conflict of interest. Not to mention the cash he rakes in from acting as an expert witness against parents in the court room. How can the person benefiting financially from these kids being in the system – that he created - also be the very person giving the evidence to take them? It stinks. The bloke’s rolling in money made off of misery.”
“He's from old money,” India said. “His estate's been in his family for generations.”
“It was on the verge of bankruptcy until his Eton mates threw him a kid shaped lifeline.” Ryan sighed. “Ironically it costs more to keep a kid in Barrington's care for a year than it does to send them to Eton.”
Colt stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. “Have you called the police to report this?”
Ryan smiled. “They're too busy to come out. I've got to drop into the station on my way to work to get a crime reference number for the insurance.”
“Wha
t time will you be in your office tomorrow?” Colt said. “I'll be dropping by to take a look at your files.”
Ryan frowned and set his jaw. “My files are confidential.”
“I'll be there at ten,” Colt said with a smile. “Either looking at your files or arresting you for corruption of a court official. Sleep tight.”
Chapter 47
Wednesday 27th July
London.
“Morning,” Colt said sliding into the passenger seat. “You look tired.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said pulling away from the train station. “I've been up all night. He's going to walk isn't he?”
Colt stared straight ahead, watching harried parents hurrying their children along the street to school and day care. “Between you and me, I'm meeting Ryan Reynolds at ten o'clock,” he murmured. “I might have found some leverage to get the details of the person who supplied him the Sanders tape.”
Maggie's eyes widened as she turned to look at him. “You've been digging. What dirt have you got on Reynolds?”
Colt shrugged. “It's an unrelated matter, but I think it’ll be enough.”
Maggie returned her eyes to the road and bit her lip. “Be careful,” she said. “If you have to make him bleed, make sure there are no witnesses.”
“I'm hoping it won't come to that.”
The day it came to that would be the day he jacked the job in. He hadn't got much sleep himself. Dwight Sanders was plaguing his dreams. He'd woken in a cold sweat at three o'clock this morning, having just hanged, drawn, and quartered him - egged on at a public gallows by Ryan Reynolds, and a mob of screaming children. Murderous fantasies the counsellor called them. Apparently they were common, and normal. Colt hated them. They only ever occurred when an abuser was on the verge of getting off, so he took them as a subconscious indication it was time to play dirty.
There was room to make a deal here. The small dark hours hadn't enabled him to work out the finer details yet, but he would. He was going to nail Dwight Sanders to the fucking floor if it killed him. And whether they liked it or not, Ryan and Flick's exploits were currently his only hammer. His phone jarred him back to the here and now, ringing with a number he didn't know.
“DCI Colt,” he said curtly.
“Thank goodness I've got hold of you,” the woman on the end of the line said. “It's Elizabeth Cordwell.”
Colt frowned. Who the fuck was Elizabeth Cordwell and how did she get his number?
She answered his unspoken question for him. “You helped me file a missing persons report with Charing Cross when my daughter, Penny, ran away. You bought me tea and gave me your card, said I could phone at any time.”
Colt's heart sank and he closed his eyes. “I heard about Penny,” he said neglecting to tell her he put her daughter's lifeless body in a bag himself. “I wish things had turned out differently. I'm sorry for your loss, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I don't like to bother you, I know you're busy. But, you were so kind to me before and the police aren't taking me seriously. No one's listening again. I've found someone who knows what happened to her.”
Colt swallowed hard. “Elizabeth, my understanding is that Penny died from a heroin overdose,” he said softly.
“I know how it looked,” she said. “But I know my daughter. She would never do drugs. “
Colt tried not to sigh. It was a story they heard every day. Even the cleanest cut runaways could get caught up in the seedier side of the city’s streets. And they often did. “Elizabeth, unfortunately lots of ....”
“She died because she didn't take her insulin,” Elizabeth said interrupting his gentle attempts to get her to face facts. “The post mortem found no heroin in her system. There were no drugs at all. I've found a girl who knows what happened to her. She says someone took her.”
Colt frowned. “Where are you?”
“In Knightsbridge,” she said. “I've been going round the hostels looking for answers ever since the post mortem came back.”
Colt’s skin prickled. Some of the people in these places would smell her desperation and wring her out dry. “Don't give anybody any money,” he said.
“I might be grieving, but I'm not stupid,” she snapped. “This girl has told me what Penny was wearing when she was taken. She saw her. I know she did. She's here now. Please, will you come and talk to her? Just give me five more minutes of your time and I'll never bother you again.”
Colt looked across at Maggie, furiously shaking her head. Ryan Reynolds, she silently mouthed pointing at the car clock. Colt scrubbed a hand over his head. “Whereabouts are you, Elizabeth?”
Maggie was too busy huffing, chuffing, and grinding the gears in temper to hear the response.
But when it came, Colt's heart skipped a beat. “Stay where you are. I'm on my way.”
Maggie glared at him as he ended the call. “You can't miss Reynolds for ....”
“I won't,” Colt said. “She's at St. Saviour’s Church.”
Maggie frowned. “But that’s where the Sanders footage was shot from.”
Colt jutted his jaw in her direction. “Put your foot down then.”
Hampshire CID, Winchester.
“The fall killed her,” Sangrin said matter-of-factly, staring at India. “But, I've ruled out suicide. She would've had to take a run and jump to land that far out. And even then she'd need to be a foot taller to clear the car park wall.”
India let out a relieved sigh, thankful for the expertise of the Coroner and ME. Knew full well Sangrin hadn't reached that conclusion on his own, to him the case was open and shut. He'd ruled out everything but suicide. “Have you pulled the car park CCTV footage?” she said.
Sangrin ignored her, and spoke directly to Firman instead. “The car park's one of the old NCPs that doesn't have any cameras. Further enquiries have produced two witnesses,” he said. “There was a couple parked in the far corner where the lighting is broken. The fella said she was talking to two blokes in a pimped up Range Rover, and then one of them simply picked her up and chucked her off.”
“Could he give a description?” Firman asked.
“Poor bastard's terrified,” Sangrin said. “All he could give us is: two males, both massive, one black, and one white. We're checking cameras on the roads to the car park to see if we can pick out this vehicle and get a registration.”
“What about the person he was with?” India said. “What did they have to say?”
Sangrin smirked. “She didn't see anything, had her head down and her mouth full at the time. And if you're still in doubt that Lisa Lewis was off her nut, these were found in her handbag,” he said tossing an evidence bag across the table to her, “along with seventeen grand in rolls of fifty pound notes.”
India stared at the plastic bag containing tiny teeth. “She kept them in her jewellery box,” she said passing them to Firman. “They're her daughter’s.”
Firman smiled. “Still got both of my girls’ milk teeth at home. How do you know these are Sasha's?”
“I took her the jewellery box when she was in hospital.”
Sangrin narrowed his eyes. “Did you give her the money as well?”
“Nope.” India pushed a pile of documents towards him. “She probably got that from George Sarum's place. His financials chucked up some serious irregularities.”
Sangrin flicked through the documents and frowned. “Most of these are newspaper articles.”
“Newspaper articles about the New Lives Foundation,” India said. “I think they were paying him to snatch children.”
Sangrin laughed. “He was a social worker; of course he was paid to snatch children. It was his bloody job.”
India gritted her teeth. “The New Lives Foundation is a private fostering and adoption agency run by Lord Professor Barrington, Dr Dale Johnson's father-in-law. I think they paid Sarum to take Billy Lewis.”
“What for?” Sangrin said. “If Barrington's got a fostering and adoption agency he'll have plenty of
kids. It doesn't make sense.”
“He's got a point,” Firman said stroking his beard.
“There's a shortage,” India said pointing out Ryan Reynolds’ latest article. “They're shipping kids in from South Africa to fill the gap.”
Firman frowned and brushed the article aside. “That's a lot of hassle to squeeze an extra eight hundred quid a week out of the local authority,” he said. “If they were doing it to screw the LA there'd have to be a file. Billy Lewis would have to be on the books, and we've already established he doesn't officially exist.”
“What if it's off the books?” India said. “What if Billy was snatched to order and Sasha was a clean-up operation? She's got a different surname to her mum and brother. She wouldn't automatically turn up in a hospital records search, and the family weren't known to Social Services.”
“This is a Lord we're talking about. He's mates with the Prime Minister for god's sake,” Sangrin said incredulously. “Have you completely lost the fucking plot?”
India looked to Firman. “Guv, hear me out. The financials back it up.”
Firman leant back in his seat, arms crossed. “Go on,” he said.
“George Sarum paid twenty grand into his account the day after Billy disappeared, and another five when Sasha was transferred out of the area.”
“Have you got any evidence the money came from the New Lives Foundation or Lord Barrington?” Firman said.
“No, but Ryan.....”
“Then you've got nothing,” Firman snapped. “Just a bullshit second-hand theory, written by some little prick at The Daily Herald with an axe to grind.”
Sangrin shook his head. “A couple of days ago you were convinced Dr Johnson took him. Now you're blaming some poor bastard who can't even defend himself.”
“They're all in it together,” India snapped. “I don't know how they did it yet, but I'm going to speak to Johnson's son and find out what happened at the hospital when he broke his arm.”
